Thursday. Could be renamed "Thighsday", as in "aching thighs day". As soon as I hit the first hill, it feels like I've had lactic acid injected into the meat of both legs with a big bore needle. Bam, instant burn. It feels like half the muscle strands in each thigh have turned into biltong. This is typical for this end of the week. Friday will be worse. Riding 10 times per week, albeit relatively short rides, the body just doesn't get a chance to recover between workouts.
In a perfect world, I'd ride Mon-Wed, catch the bus on Thursday and ride again on Friday. However, don't ask me to catch the bus when I am still capable of movement. I'll take 45 minutes of muscle pain over being stuck in a sardine can with fat wobblers any day.
I decide to fire up a bit on Hickson Road, knowing that I may regret it later. The lights go green, I have a gentle downhill slope under me, so I power up to 40km/h as quickly as possible and hold it. That is as fast as the cars along this stretch can do. I know I can go faster, but it's a long stretch of road, and I want to be able to get right to the end, rather than burning out early. I enjoy myself by pacing the drivers that are searching for a parking spot.
Some get irritated at the thought of a bike going as fast as they are, so they speed up and blat past spots that they could have taken if they were going more slowly. I see the odd curse and thumped steering wheel, and watch for cars suddenly braking and yanking hard left in front of me. I am pumping like mad, yet my fingers are shadowing the brake levers, ready to switch from go to whoa in an instant.
I only hold 40km/h for a short period. I am desperately glancing at the speedo as the tempo starts to wear off - 39.6km/h, 38.8, 36.7 and so on. The leg burn is really kicking in at this point. I am not breathing hard by any means, but the thighs are cooking. I'm happy to do this, knowing that with every little episode like this, I will be fitter and faster next time. I just have to keep on pushing it, getting out of my comfort zone and into the world of pain.
I lie down on the couch with 'Heaven + Earth' after dinner. I read half a chapter before passing out. It is nothing to do with Ian Plimer's writing, and everything to do with a week of riding catching up with me.
Tomorrow is Fryday, as in the day my leg muscles fry after a week of abuse. I dread the thought of ever becoming a soft cock.